Blue Moon
by Spiralled
Summary: Like most fans, I spent the summer between seasons 6 and 7 thinking about Spike's new soul, wondering about the line "Make me what I was." This reflective piece about his journey was what sprang forth last summer.


Spike swayed slightly as the demon's hand stayed fixed on his chest. The energy flowing through him tapped every memory simultaneously. Too many to make sense of. He tried to focus. A lock of blonde hair, a rare smile, a punch to the nose even.  
  
Blessedly, the quarrel of sights, sounds and sensations stopped. In that hairsbreadth, the flood of memories started up again, this time like a Beatles record played backwards. His journey here, conversing with Clem, getting soused. Buffy. Buffy in her bathrobe. The images slowed down. Every look on her face, every crack of her voice as she cried out, intensified tenfold.  
  
This continued, the minutia speeding by, the death, pain, and violence all slowed and squeezed out drop by drop. His occasional brushes with valor, times he helped, provided comfort, or simply cared were also stretched like taffy, but those moments were sparse.  
  
He shuddered when Glory's image appeared, flinched when her finger bore into his flesh. But there was no pain, instead each time it was replaced by the sensation of Buffy's butterfly kiss she'd given him for protecting Dawn. Even as syrupy slow as the moment was, it was quickly gone. Replaced by carnage, death, destruction - Sunnydale, Los Angeles, South America, Budapest, New York, Hong Kong, England. The girl in the coal bin. Torturing of his former peers. Being turned. His foibles and follies while human.  
  
The demon removed his hand. "It is done."   
  
For a long moment, Spike stayed on his knees, staring inside himself. Then his lips began to move, as if he was forming words, but there was no sound. Shakily he got to his feet and stumbled forward, out of the cave and into the desert. It was a moonless night, but the stars were out and bright. He meandered without direction. He didn't care. It didn't matter. He stopped in the darkness and slowly turned. He stopped when he found the eastern horizon, the faintest ribbon of red peeking out. Stretching out his arms, he fell backward into the sand, landing with a jarring thump. He laid there, spread eagle, waiting, mindless of the heat pouring off of the sand.  
  
A breath of a breeze blew across him, ruffling his hair. Then another, longer this time, like a child blowing out birthday candles. Then again, with force enough to move the sand, which pelted against his skin.  
  
"Good," he thought. "Damned good and proper way to go."  
  
The wind continued. The sand pooled up next to him. Finally he realized all but his face was covered. "Bloody hell," he thought as he closed his eyes and the sand covered them. He neither slept nor really felt awake. At some point he realized the howl of the wind had disappeared. He tried to move, but the sand had wrapped him in a tight embrace. Oddly, he didn't feel the sense of claustrophobic panic that waking up in a coffin had given him. He let go of the thoughts and slipped into a state of blessed numbness.  
  
*****  
  
Warm pants of breath covered his face. He opened his eyes and found himself looking into yellow-gold ones. It was night and there was a smattering of stars and an ebbing moon. With a blink, his eyes adjusted and decided it was either a wild dog or a wolf or a coyote. Probably a coyote. It bent its head down and pushed something toward him. Spike sat up on his elbows to get a better look. It was a hare. The coyote bumped its forehead against Spike's arm and then looked at the hare.  
  
"For me, eh?" He reached out for it, licking his tongue across his incisors. The hare was still warm and he sank his teeth into it, ravenous with hunger. After he'd sucked every last drop out, he looked up to see the coyote still standing there, its head tilted, looking straight at him. Spike would've sworn it sported a grin. It trotted off a few steps, stopped and looked back at him. It bobbed its head twice and stared pointedly. Finally, it trotted back and bumped its head into him again.  
  
"I'm to follow, eh? I suppose I got nothing better to do until the sun comes back." Spike rose to his feet and followed. When he lagged too far behind, the coyote stopped and waited until he caught up. They walked throughout the night, accompanied by the desert sounds: The constant swish of sand under their feet, the occasional popping and hissing of the unevenly cooling grains of sand. And his thoughts. His terrible thoughts, which fractured like black ice. He reached up to run his hands through his hair, finding only a bit of fuzz. "Fancy that," he thought.  
  
A breeze ruffled the coyote's coat. It sat down and thumped its tail a couple of times, giving Spike another cock-eyed smile. Spike knew it was nearly sunrise. Why here was better than there, he didn't know and it didn't matter that much to him.  
  
The coyote whined as the wind picked up and sand swirled around Spike's ankles.   
  
"What?"  
  
In the blink of an eye, it was leaping at him. The front paws connected with his chest, knocking him to the ground. It stood over him, panting happily. He tried to sit up and it growled, so he growled back. It just smiled with its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Slowly the sand crept over him and he gave in to the cocooned abyss.  
  
*****  
  
He woke to the coyote's warm breath in his face, yet again. He tried to ignore it, thinking the pup would become bored and leave him alone. Then a wet warm tongue ran across his forehead.   
  
"Oh God," he said, waving his arms in front of his face as he sat up. The coyote danced back a few steps, then picked up another hare and dropped it in Spike's lap. He stared at it for a long while, then gathered it up and gestured toward the coyote with it, saying, "Cheers."  
  
This night was the same as the last, as was the night before that. He wasn't sure how long he had been out here, except the moon could now been seen in the sky. His will to live or at least to go one being dead had kicked in a couple of days back as the predawn changed to dawn. He had acquiesced to the insistence of his companion and laid down to let the sand wash over him, acknowledging that for reasons outside his scope he wasn't going to see daylight any time soon. Now when the night ended, he found himself willing to be wrapped in the sand, buried in oblivion.   
  
*****  
  
Another night in an endless chain. Partway into the night, the moon rose and the coyote stopped, sat down, tipped its head up and howled at the full moon. Spike didn't recall the coyote doing this during the other full moon. After the second howl, it looked over its shoulder at him. "Don't look at me like that, I'm a vampire, not a werewolf. You'll have to stick with the solo." He could have sworn it shrugged at him before turning back and letting out a couple of plaintive howls.  
  
Then there was an answer back, which sounded oddly like the opening riff to "Smoke on the Water." The coyote jumped to its feet, yipping and then took off at a sprint. It stopped short and turned back, barking at Spike. Spike frowned and stood his ground. The coyote barked again.   
  
"What's that Lassie? Timmy's stuck down a well? Why didn't you bloody say so?" Then he sighed and began to trot to catch up. The distant howl was repeated and the coyote picked up speed. Spike found himself at a full run, the air whistling past his ears. He passed the coyote and then turned around, running backwards. "Come on now, pick it up," he teased, unaware of the smile on his face. He turned back as his companion caught up and he fell in next to the furry one.   
  
The desert gave way to rocks, vegetation and trees, which they darted between. Ahead was a wall of rock. The coyote scrambled up the side and he followed. They stopped at a clearing of flat stone slabs encircled by a wall of rock. There was a pool in front of them. Someone sat in the shadows on the far side. Spike tensed, unsure of what to expect. When they reached the water's edge, the figure stood up. Spike could tell it was a man, shorter than himself. The figure walked toward them and the moonlight shown on a shock of red hair.  
  
"Oz?"  
  
"Hello Spike," said Oz, sporting his standard wear of a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, with an unbuttoned shirt over it.   
  
Oz began walking along the pool's edge as Spike spoke, "What are you doing here? Hey! You were the one howling back there, weren't you? Why aren't you a werewolf, full moon and all? Heard mention you were doing better at staying PETA friendly and all, but still. Red must of alerted you about what happened. Why I left Sunnydale and all. S'pose Buffy told her right off what I did. Can't say I understand what you're supposed to do about it. Certainly nothing worse than I want to do to myself." He paused for a half beat. "Well then?"  
  
Oz looked Spike over. "Huh. Thought the soul might cure that logorrhea problem. Guess not."  
  
Spike stood up straight, trying to muster as much dignity as he could without a shirt or shoes and jeans so caked with sand that they couldn't be identified as black. "I simply haven't had anyone to talk to in a while." Spike narrowed his eyes. "And how do you know about my soul?"  
  
"I'm interning," Oz replied.  
  
"For who?"  
  
Oz glanced up at the sky. "We don't have a lot of time. You got here a bit later than expected." He looked down at the coyote, who whined, laid down at Oz's feet and looked up at him with big eyes. "We're cool," Oz said and the coyote thumped its tail a couple times.  
  
"It's my fault that Wiley and me are late. Didn't realize that we had a destination."  
  
"Oh, this isn't a destination. You're at a crossroads in the journey. Which way are you going to go?"  
  
"Once more, less cryptic this time."  
  
"Every choice you make has an impact for good or bad on the lives you touch. Mostly, you've always been able to ignore it or shake it off. Not that way anymore, is it?" said Oz, looking Spike in the eyes.  
  
"No," said Spike, unable to turn away.  
  
"Which way do you want to go? Back to what you had? They can make that happen. Or forward? There are no promises with that. Every step forward branches off in different directions."  
  
Spike opened his mouth, but Oz held his hand up. "It doesn't matter what you say out loud, so I'd be okay with it if you didn't."  
  
Oz sat down on his heels. He dipped his pointer and middle fingers into the pool with and held them up. They were red with blood. Spike's eyes widened as the salty sweet smell hit his senses. How had he not noticed this before?  
  
"Drink your fill. Discern your path." He wiped his fingers on the grass, then stood up with a small smile lighting his face. "Now I have a friend who needs seeing to. Good luck Spike." Oz turned, jammed his hands into his pockets and walked into the shadows.  
  
Spike tried to think, which was nearly impossible to do, given the overwhelming scent of blood. He shook his head and then opened his mouth to call after Oz, but he was gone. Spike closed his mouth into a tight line and again tried to think. What did he want? He thought he'd known, but now... So often he'd landed on a plan, made a choice, with very little forethought. He wanted to do this right for once. Make the proper choice. Desperately he wanted to think and couldn't. Finally he stopped trying to pin down his thoughts and emotions and turned his attention to the pool.  
  
He knelt down near its edge, dipped a finger in and pulled it out, marveling at the play of light and shadow on its surface, at its perfect consistency as it slowly ran down his hand, at its warmth against his cold skin. He flicked his tongue out and cautiously licked the little bit that had drifted to his wrist. It was exquisite. He ran his tongue up his palm and finger, exercising every ounce of restraint to not vamp out and sucking on the fingertip as he tried to identify it. Definitely not rabbit, pig or cow, which were the most recent on his pallet. He cupped his hands, dipped them in and drank. It'd been a while since he'd had human blood, especially the fresh, non-reheated variety, but he was certain it didn't taste this good.  
  
He gave up trying to identify it and just drank, scooping handful after handful, slurping it down, no longer able to keep his face from changing, even if he did not need the teeth. Eventually the edge of hunger left and he slowed down, closing his eyes and savoring every swallow. He opened his eyes, scooped up another handful and as he drank, saw a bleary reflection in the rippled pool. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the coyote. But he wasn't there. Spike turned back to the pool and saw the familiar reflection of everything but himself.  
  
He looked up at the sky. "Moonlight's playing tricks on me," he muttered and with a shrug, returned to drinking. But with each handful, the color of the pool became lighter, the consistency a bit thinner. First like red wine, then white and then as clear as water. Yet it tasted, if possible, even better than when he had first started. And then he felt sated and his face returned.   
  
He rocked back on his heels and let the pool still. He stretched out his arms, looking first at the backs of his hands and then the palms, then down at his chest. The rivulets of blood and the lack of control they represented disgusted him. He rinsed his face, arms and chest. He was surprised how little of the clear stuff it took to clean up the blood. Reflexively, he ran his wet hands through his hair to slick the curls back under his control. He was nonplussed that it had returned to its usual length. What did surprise him was the color of the loose strands in his hands. He assumed he'd be stuck with the puppy-eyed brown, but it was white. He frowned. Whiter than what he'd've chosen.  
  
Before he could suss out what this all meant, he felt a tug on a belt loop. It was the coyote, who whined nervously and pawed the earth. Spike looked up and realized that the night was nearly used up and there wasn't any sand in sight. The steep stone sides would buy him a bit more time until the sun climbed over the rim, but there wouldn't be enough shadows to protect him indefinitely.   
  
However, the coyote seemed to have an opinion about where to go, so Spike followed. The coyote loped ahead a few feet toward one of the rock walls. He sniffed about, homed in a particular spot and began digging at it with his front paws. Loose pebbles and small stones flew out, exposing a small opening. The coyote stepped back, examining the hole and then disappeared inside. In a moment he popped out and looked at Spike. Spike shrugged and getting down on his hands and knees, climbed inside. Once Spike was inside, the coyote walked around in three tight circles and then curled up in front of the opening, resting his head on his paws.  
  
"More like a large rabbit's run than a cave," he muttered as he climbed the slight incline, a few loose pebbles rolling away behind him. After crawling along several feet, Spike concluded that the passage was so narrow that he couldn't turn around if he decided to take his chances in the great outdoors. He'd give it a bit more of a go to see if it opened up somewhere, otherwise he'd have to lay down in the tunnel and stick out the day that way. His mouth went dry at the thought of a tight space that he had minimal control over.  
  
Just then the cave opened up a bit. Nothing large, but he was able to sit up by just keeping his head a bit bowed. He slouched down and pulled his lighter out of his pocket, scooted back up and eyed the space. The floor was fairly flat and free of stones. The walls were bare, but as he scrunched his shoulders down and tipped his head to take a look at the roof, he could see it was covered with drawings. He eased himself onto the floor, pleased to find that there was enough room to stretch his legs out.  
  
It was odd after so many days of laying down and being buried in the sand as the wind howled in his ears to lay down and be wrapped in nothing but silence. Damn disconcerting. So he flicked the lighter back on and studied the ceiling. Before he could make sense of the hieroglyphs, a heavy feeling overtook him as his meal worked through his limbs. He closed the lighter, curling his fingers tightly around it. He placed his hands on his stomach, closed his eyes and drifted off.   
  
*****  
  
His eyes flew open with a start. The room was inky black and filled with the echo of a howl. In a panic, he sat up, banging his forward against the ceiling. "Bloody hell!" Damn that hurt. Worse than when he fell off the counter. He reached up to rub the spot and realized there was something in his hand. A lighter. After a couple of misfires, he got it to light, catching the edge of his thumb in it.   
  
"Ouch!" He dropped the lighter and it went out. His thumb stung, so he stuck it in his mouth, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. Even alone in the dark, he flushed at the indignity of it all.   
  
He felt around in the dark, finally locating the lighter. He flicked it on without injury this time and looked around, trying to get his bearings. How had he gotten here? Why was he lying in a cave? Nothing seemed familiar. What was the last thing he remembered before waking up here? It seemed to have something to do with a fight. And a blonde. He heard the howl again and noticed the opening, deciding the priority was to get out of here first and figure out the past later.   
  
With the light before him, he poked his head into the opening. He couldn't see much, just a narrow passage. Too narrow to hold the lighter while traversing it. So he sat back, careful to not bang the back of his head. He tucked the lighter away and climbed into the tunnel. He hadn't noted the small decline or loose sand as he moved forward, his palms finding a particularly loose spot. His arms shot out, he lost his balance and found himself sliding forward, unable to stop. He tried to raise himself up, only to scrape against the edges. Before he could try something else, he spilled out of the tunnel into the open air, sprawled out on the ground.  
  
Mocking laughter filled in his ears. He sprang to his feet, hands up, ready to take on whoever it was. There was no one to be seen. He slowly turned around, surveying the area. Rocks and trees. Skyscraping, deep red trees. Large enough for a small army to hide behind.  
  
He edged toward the grove, "Show yourself!"  
  
He heard a flutter and looked up. A large, black raven glided down and landed on the ground a few feet away. It bobbed its head up and down, nodding at him. It stretched its wings and treated him to a burst of cackling laughter before flying away.  
  
"Blimey, it was you." He relaxed his arms and leaned his back against a trunk, furrowing his brow. "Blimey," he repeated, rolling the word over his tongue. "Blimey, bloody, trollop, bollix, sodden, shag." A window of memories returned to him and he smiled. He was British. He frowned, like his father. The one with the trollop. They'd been in a shop. A magic shop. And he sensed there'd been a lot of danger before his memory darkened. He rubbed the crown of his head. How hard had he hit it? Had he aggravated a previous injury? Was that why it was like trying to grasp quicksilver to remember?  
  
He slid down to the forest floor, resting the back of his head against the trunk. No use running around until he had a few more answers. He had to suss this out "Harrumph, 'suss'," he repeated out loud.   
  
He got back to his feet and moved toward a fallen branch. Its arm was as thick as his own. It snapped with ease. He crouched down and stacked it carefully. He pulled the lighter out of his pocket and finally the kindling caught. Staring at the flames as they licked the wood, he felt something akin to awe.   
  
The fire gathered strength and he lost himself in their dance. Then he remembered her. Joan. Fighting by her side. Realizing he was a vampire. But assuredly a noble, souled one. Nothing else made sense, especially since it appeared they'd been in the magic shop together without incident. He grinned, recalling the way she flipped him on his back and straddled him. That'd been nice. His grin widened. And certainly not unfamiliar. He became pensive. But the last thing he recalled was holding a vampire as she struck it. Then nothing, until he awoke in that dark chamber. He needed to get back to Joan. But how?  
  
His stomach rumbled. Since he was a vampire, he must need blood. But from where? The raven cawed again. He frowned as he eyed the bird. He couldn't rightly remember where his sustenance came from, but damned unlikely it was birds. The raven cawed again, flapping its wings. He furrowed his brow. The bird picked up something with its beak and hopped closer to him. He stretched out his hand and the raven dropped the token in his palm.  
  
He turned it over in his hands. The fruit was a reddish purple, round and without blemish. He held it to his nose, sniffing. It smelled sweet and vaguely familiar. He looked over to the raven, which looked back with unblinking eyes, its wings tucked in. He looked down at his hand, rolling the grape in his palm and wondering whether it was safe to eat. He didn't know where he was or how this bird fit in to it. Hell, he hardly knew who he was. The absence of facts made it difficult to assess the situation. However with everything gone, he had precious little to lose. Finally he shrugged and popped it into his mouth. He rolled the fruit against the roof of his mouth. The thin skin began to tear and the juice trickled along his tongue.   
  
His eyes widened. It wasn't juice, it was blood. He didn't understand how, but then again, there was very little among his handful of memories that he understood. Greedily he bit into the flesh of the fruit, the meat bursting into liquid. He licked his lips, hungry for more.  
  
The raven returned. Another fruit from its beak delivered to him. He thought about nibbling it, to draw out the experience while he waited for the raven's return. But now the mere smell made him salivate, so with relish he bit it in two.  
  
He looked up and realized the raven had not flown away. Two of them were sitting on a branch. The firelight gleaming on their feathers, their beaks tucked under their wings. Now two more arrived, delivering another morsel. They continued to arrive in pairs until the fire burned low and he was sated. He tried to form a plan, but his thoughts all led back to her.  
  
He looked up at the thick canopy of branches and leaves, knowing there were stars even if he couldn't rightly see them. He cried out to the night, "Where are you, Joan? How am I s'posed to find you when I'm beyond lost?"  
  
A wind blew through, ruffling the flock's feathers. A cacophony of cries filled the air as they took flight, circling over his head before disappearing in the dark. One raven remained. Landing in front of him, it looked him in the eye, cawed and flew back a pace.   
  
"Sorry duck, but I'm not in the mood for games."  
  
Again it cawed and flew back.  
  
He pursed his lips and eyed it closely, reflexively sucking on the insides of his cheeks. "You want me to follow, don't you? Guess it doesn't make much sense for you to feed me and then lead me astray..."  
  
The raven's beak opened in a near smile and it chuckled. Soon, the raven was alight and the vampire's feet flew to keep up, mindful not to trip, but not daring to take his eyes away. Quickly and quietly they raced against the night, leaving the forest behind. How much longer until they reached the destination? Would it be before dawn? He recalled enough to know he needed to wrap himself in darkness before then.  
  
Just then he glanced down, seeing the waist high sign too late. Thwap! He flipped over it, landing flat on his back. The raven looked down at him from its perch atop the 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign. It bobbed its head as if stifling laughter before flying off into the night.  
  
*****  
  
The empty playground was the last stop on Buffy's patrol. Giles' books suggested a momentous event ahead. But the only thing she'd encountered this night was the fog creeping along the ground. She walked up the seesaw and stood balanced in the middle, surveying the park. Someone else was present. She reached for a stake as the dark form moved toward her. Buffy frowned at the familiar stride. The disheveled figure couldn't be Spike.  
  
"Joan," he said under his breath before breaking into a grin. Oblivious to her furrowed brow and the readied stake, he waved at her. "There you are!" he shouted as he ran toward her.  
  
Flabbergasted, Buffy shifted her weight and the board teetered. She began to slide and he poured on a bit more speed, catching her shoulders as she tripped off the end of the seesaw, the stake flying out of her hands.   
  
"This is wonderful! You have no idea how glad I am to see you!" He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he looked at her expectantly.  
  
She straightened up, a lock of hair falling across her face and stared at him, incredulous. Her hands tightening into fists. And she punched him in the nose. 


End file.
